


Stoned in Paradise

by glorious_spoon



Series: Teen Wolf Kink Bingo 2018 [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (implied) - Freeform, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Anal Sex, Bittersweet, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Dubious Consent, Feral Behavior, First Time, Fuck Or Die, Infidelity, M/M, Mates, Mates Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-29 23:42:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15084317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glorious_spoon/pseuds/glorious_spoon
Summary: He’s always been a person who’ll use any weapon that comes to hand; they have that in common. Sometimes, Derek thinks that’s what drew him to Stiles so strongly in the first place: not his looks, not his quick mind or his smart mouth or his fierce loyalty, but that bedrock of ruthless pragmatism that sits beneath it all.*When Derek's heat comes on unexpectedly, he tries to lock himself away to ride it out. Stiles has other ideas.





	Stoned in Paradise

**Author's Note:**

> Per an anon complaint, I've edited the tags to hopefully add more clarity; this fic takes place while Stiles is involved with Malia, although the relationship is only briefly mentioned, and while I don't consider the ending unhappy, it does not resolve into a romantic Sterek get-together. So, please read (or don't) with those considerations in mind.

Peter is the one who finds him, and he’s not sure if that’s better or worse than any of the other possible options. On the one hand, he’s the one person that understands exactly what’s happening without Derek having to stumble through an explanation. On the other hand—

On the other hand, he’s _Peter_ , and he’s never met an open wound he could resist poking at.

“I don’t understand why you’re making such a production of this.” By the door, Peter inspects his claws. “Your body has needs. Ignoring them won’t make them go away; in fact, given how far gone you are already, ignoring them is liable to get you killed. I shouldn’t need to be telling you this.”

“So don’t,” Derek snaps from where he’s hunched over on the couch, his head pounding, every part of him aching like he’s been beaten. It came on suddenly this time, too fast for him to take any of his usual precautions. It’s been years since he’s been hit by a heat like this, and somehow he managed to forget how fucking awful it is.

He’s never let it get this far before, either. Every other time, he could go out, find some willing stranger to bring home and slake himself with. That probably has something to do with it.

“You’re being ridiculous,” Peter says. “If you’re too prissy to bring yourself to do it, I’ll call someone. There are plenty of discreet services that would—”

_“No.”_

“Interesting.” Peter peers at him, drifts closer. “You’re not actively suicidal these days, and you’ve certainly endured worse for the sake of survival than awkward sex with a stranger. So…” A pause as Peter sniffs the air, and then his smile takes on a pleased edge, the way it always does when he’s found something worth holding over Derek’s head. “Oh, Derek. You’ve taken a mate? You should have told me.”

“Not your business,” Derek snarls. “Get out.”

“Or did they turn you down?” Peter _tsks_. “That’s tragic. And with that pretty face, too.”

“Get _out._ ”

“Unless, that is, you haven’t even told them—”

The shift rips through him, his claws shredding skin, canines drawing blood as he lunges forward with a wordless roar. Stops just short of sinking them into Peter’s flesh, forces himself under control. His voice is still an inhuman growl when he speaks. “Get out. Now. Or I won’t be responsible for what I do to you.”

Peter puts both his hands up, claws in, smiling an awful smile that’s entirely human. “Fine, fine. If that’s what you want. Call me if you change your mind about making arrangements, though.”

The door slides shut behind him, and then he’s gone. Derek pushes his face against the rough coolness of the couch upholstery and closes his eyes. He’s going to have to handcuff himself to something pretty soon. Before his mind is completely gone, before he loses the control that’s keeping him here instead of slinking out into the night, climbing through a bedroom window that he knows is never locked—

Soon. He’ll do it soon. Any minute now he’ll be able to make his limbs move…

He wakes suddenly to a rush of cool air, quick footsteps on the floor, the sound of two worried voices rising and falling over each other.

“Derek? Jesus, Derek, what the hell happened to you?” Warm hands on him, turning him onto his back. Another wolf. Alpha. _Scott._

Godfuckingdamn it. He just hopes that Scott came alone. Or brought Lydia, or Kira, or Chris fucking Argent, for that matter. Anyone except—

“What’s the matter with him?”

Stiles. Of course it’s Stiles. He’d know that scent anywhere, sharp and bright and heady and fucking intoxicating in the worst possible way.

“Go,” Derek snarls, low and inhuman.

“Seriously, Derek, I don’t think we should.” Scott’s hands are patting over him. His touch is clinical, but it still makes Derek want to twist away. “What happened? Peter said something about heat, but he didn’t really explain—”

“I can call Lydia,” Stiles says. He’s closer now, peering over Scott’s shoulder at Derek. His hair is soft and unstyled, flattened on one side. He’s wearing jeans and no socks, his sneakers untied, his t-shirt too large and sleep-warm from his skin. Derek has completely lost track of what time it is, but it must be late, because Stiles looks like he was just hauled out of bed, and that’s exactly the last thought he needs to be having right now. “Or maybe Deaton. Heat spells, overheating, burns— does it have anything to do with the Nemeton? I know when Parrish—”

“No,” Derek grits out. “Not. It’s not that kind—”

“Not what kind?” Scott asks, and Derek focuses on him. Having another wolf so close, not to mention an alpha, is a stinging discomfort on the surface of his skin, but it’s still a lot better than focusing on Stiles right now. “Not that kind of heat? Then what kind—”

He stops abruptly. Derek can almost see the penny drop, because Scott can be kind of dense sometimes, but he’s always been smart when it really counts. And Deaton, probably, has explained a few things. “Oh, shit. Really? That’s a thing?”

“For born wolves. Some of us. You don’t—” Derek breaks off again, shakes his head. Glances over Scott’s shoulder at Stiles. “You need to get him out of here. Now.”

“What?” Scott asks, and then his nostrils flare, taking in the scent, and his eyes get huge, and Derek knows he gets it. “Oh. _Oh_. Stiles, come on— let’s go—”

“What?” Stiles asks, as Scott stands, groping for his arm to drag him back. Derek grips his own forearms, claws digging bloody furrows into his flesh. “Why? Oh-oh-okay, wolfed out, he’s wolfed out, he’s growling. What, do I smell like food?”

“Really, _really_ not the problem,” Scott says through clenched teeth, hauling him bodily backward. Derek closes his eyes, breathes shallowly through his mouth, tries not to smell anything. It’s not working, especially since Stiles, being Stiles, won’t _shut the hell up._

“What is it, then? Is it a human thing, or a—”

“I will explain _outside,_ ” Scott says, and drags him through the door. It slams shut with a loud, metallic _clang_ , and it’s only then that Derek can bring himself to let go of his arms, to breathe. It takes a few minutes of that, sucking cool air across his teeth and listening to the muffled sound of Scott and Stiles having what sounds like a heated argument two floors down, before he can force himself to move. The handcuffs are already attached to the radiator, the metal cold and slick under his fingers. It takes him two fumbling, clumsy tries to get them closed around his wrists, to flick the key out of reach. The edges of the metal bite uncomfortably into his skin, and he focuses on that instead of the lingering scent of Stiles in his apartment.

It's quiet outside. He doesn't remember hearing the Jeep start, but he's not exactly tracking that well, either. They must have left. Probably to go find Deaton, or Peter, or Lydia. To try to dig up some kind of solution to this, other than the obvious one that he's not even going to allow himself to consider.

There isn't one, but it's still a nice thought.

Derek puts his head back against the cold radiator and finally, finally allows his iron control to slip.

The heat takes him.

* * *

It’s some time later when the door swings open, and then shut, and his nose is suddenly full of Stiles’ scent again. He jerks against the handcuffs, moans low and needy in the back of his throat.

“Oh, wow,” Stiles says, and he’s closer now, too close. “That’s surprisingly both hot and terrifying. I didn’t know those two states could coexist. Although I probably should have realized, having known you as long as I have.”

“Out,” Derek manages. “Get out.”

“Uh, no, I don’t think I will, actually.” Stiles pauses. “So, I just had the world’s most awkward conversation, like, seriously, the most awkward conversation in the history of human interaction, and I was actually kinda wondering if Scott was fucking with me, not that he would, but you’re—” He makes a vague motion with one hand. “All. Like this. So I think he must have been telling the truth.”

His tongue darts out to wet his lips. Derek makes another low noise, and Stiles pauses, and looks at him, and then deliberately licks his lips again.

“Oh,” he says softly, in response to whatever Derek’s face is doing--he doesn’t know what he looks like, he’s lost control of his expressions, he feels as though he’s been hollowed out, every rational thought replaced with that burning _need_ — “Scott really wasn’t kidding. Was he.”

It’s not a question. Derek shakes his head, dizzy with the smell of him, the heat of him so close. “Leave. Now.”

“Are you afraid of hurting me?” Stiles asks, and he’s not leaving, he’s not _leaving_ , he’s coming closer and his hand is on Derek’s arm. “I don’t think you want to hurt me.”

 _That’s because you’re an idiot_ , he thinks, but he can’t make his mouth form words. Another low moan slips out, and Stiles nods like that’s an answer.

“Okay,” he says. “This is insane, but okay. I’m going to try something, alright?”

He’s closer now, so much closer, so close that he might as well be the only thing that exists in the world. Derek closes his eyes and breathes in hard through his nose, and that’s worse, that’s so much worse—

Warm lips on his. Tentative and gentle, like Stiles is being careful with him, which is insane, or like he doesn’t really know what he’s doing, which is likely. Derek can’t bring his hands up to touch, but he can open his mouth, tilt his chin, lick into Stiles’ mouth, the slick heat of it, before he remembers all the reasons he shouldn’t be doing that.

Stiles makes a low, shocked noise that vibrates through him, and then his hand is in Derek’s hair, curving around the back of his neck, pressing closer and kissing him until he forgets how to breathe. It’s more skilled than he would have thought if he’d ever allowed himself to imagine this, the hard press of Stiles’ fingers at the base of his skull and the curl of his tongue knowledgeable and maddening.

That doesn’t make it _okay_ , but Derek can’t find the willpower to stop it before Stiles pulls away of his own accord, his eyes huge, his mouth red and wet.

“Wow,” he says again, slightly out of breath. “Okay.”

“What,” Derek manages. His voice is wrecked. His mind is full of a hot red haze. The cuffs are digging painfully into his wrists, but he can’t stop pulling at them, can’t stop trying to reach out, to touch—

“Scott doesn’t know I’m here,” Stiles says, somewhat nonsensically, and then he digs into his pockets, pulls out a small plastic bottle and a foil-wrapped square, and all of a sudden it makes entirely too much sense. “And before you get all judgemental on me, I had these in the glove compartment. It never hurts to be prepared.”

“Stiles,” Derek grits out. It’s all he can manage.

“Look, Scott says you might be okay if we just let it run its course, but he doesn’t really believe it, and let’s be honest, you’re hot and it wouldn’t exactly be a hardship, okay? And apparently I’m the only one who can do it.” He licks his lips again, his eyes flickering over Derek’s face, then away. “He said that you’re, that I’m—”

“Mine,” Derek growls.

“Yeah,” Stiles says softly. “That. Were you planning on sharing that little piece of information with me, like, ever? Never mind. I know you weren’t. I’m sorry about this.”

Derek tries to ask— _sorry for what—_ but then Stiles’ hands are on the cuffs. His hands are on the cuffs, warm fingers brushing the inside of Derek’s wrist, and he has a key.

No. Oh, no.

Stiles already has one cuff unlocked before Derek can make his mouth form words. His fingers itch to reach out, to grab Stiles and yank him close—

He digs them into his thigh instead, claws shredding his jeans, piercing his skin, and manages to say, “Don’t.”

“Don’t what? Don’t let you out? Don’t save your aggravating werewolf ass, yet again? What?”

“Hurt,” Derek growls. “I’ll. Hurt you.”

“Yeah, I kinda figured,” Stiles says, sounding pretty fucking unconcerned about the prospect. “Werewolf, mating frenzy, hormones, et cetera. I’m not expecting tender gentle loving here.”

Derek doesn’t answer. His teeth are too long, digging into his lower lip; he can feel the beginning of the shift in the bones of his face. Stiles sighs, sits back on his heels, and surveys him for a moment. He looks calm, but Derek can hear his heart racing, can smell fear/arousal/ _fear_ on his skin.

“I know you think you’re protecting me,” he says finally. “Which, look, dude, I appreciate, and it’s not like I don’t get how batshit insane this all is, but I don’t think you’re going to kill me, and I really don’t want you to die over something this stupid. You can’t do that to us, okay? Not after all the bullshit you’ve put us through.”

He’s close again. His scent fills Derek’s nose, and he’s reaching out without thinking about it; it’s like he’s watching himself from a distance when his hand grips Stiles’ arm, claws digging bloody furrows into all that smooth unmarked skin as he drags him in for a bruising kiss. Bites at his lip hard enough to taste blood. There’s nothing human in this, nothing gentle in this at all. Stiles makes a shocked sound against his mouth, and the _fear_ -scent spikes like a punch to the gut.

It hurts, and it gives him just enough control to end the kiss, to shove Stiles roughly away. He falls backwards, a flailing bundle of limbs. His head bounces off the carpeted floor. For a moment, he stays there.

Derek closes his eyes. The world has gone hot and red, and thought seems very far away. He hears Stiles move. Expects to hear footsteps crossing the room, the sound of the door sliding shut, leaving him alone to let his body burn itself up from the inside.

Instead, there’s a soft shuffling, and then the heat of another body, and Stiles still smells like fear but his hands are perfectly steady when he reaches out to unlock the other handcuff.

* * *

He’s not consciously aware of moving. The next thing he knows, he’s on his hands and knees over Stiles, pinning him to the floor by his wrists and thighs, caging him in with his body. The smell of him intoxicating this close.

“Derek.” Stiles isn’t trying to struggle. It would be pointless in any case, but he isn’t even trying, even though Derek has to be bruising him. He just lies there, throat bared, belly up. Derek growls and pushes his face into his neck, lapping where the skin is thin and hot and he can feel the tripping rush of blood against his tongue. Stiles lets out a shuddering sigh. “ _Derek._ ”

Derek whines against his skin. Words seem very far away now, but this— Stiles’ body plaint beneath him, the smell of his skin and the sound of his heart— this is real. This is everything.

Stiles moves his head, the faint scraps of his cheek against Derek’s forehead, breath moving his hair. “What do you need?”

He needs—

He lets go of Stiles’ wrists and puts his hands on him. His skin is hot, his t-shirt damp, and Derek has his claws out, thin fabric shredding beneath them, the sound drowning out Stiles’ startled noise. Pale skin gleaming, scored red from his touch.

He needs—

He needs less _clothing_ , for one thing. And Stiles definitely needs less clothing. The button on his jeans is slippery, impossible to grip, and Derek is seconds away from just tearing that fabric off too when Stiles mutters, “Jesus, just let me do it,” and bats his claws away like it’s nothing.

Derek growls, hears the speeding of Stiles’ heart, and then he’s slithering out of his jeans and boxers, kicking them away. “Good?”

Good. It’s good. He growls his approval into Stiles’ skin, feels an answering shudder, a feedback loop of arousal; Stiles is hard, which shouldn’t be as surprising as it is, his warm familiar scent gone earthy and sharp. Derek collapses against him, grinding down against all that smooth perfect skin, and it’s good, it’s _good_ , but—

His claws rip at the floor— _not skin, it’s not skin, Stiles is not a wolf, Stiles is human and breakable and he can’t let himself forget that, he can’t—_ and Stiles sighs and rubs a hand over his back, absurdly soothing, like _Derek_ is the vulnerable one here, and says, “Not enough, though, huh?”

It’s not.

“Okay,” Stiles says, and breathes in, sharp. Jittery scent of adrenaline on his skin. “Okay, well, Plan B it is. Let me—” He starts to roll away, and Derek snarls, pinning him again. Claws dig into his shoulders, and Stiles puts his hands out, long fingers splayed.

He’s afraid. He’s very afraid, under the haze of arousal, but none of that shows on his face. His expression is focused. Calculating. He brings his hands up, very slowly, to cup Derek’s cheeks, then lifts his head to kiss him. When they break apart, he says, “Derek, let me up.”

He can’t, he can’t, he _can’t—_

“I’m not going anywhere,” Stiles says against his mouth. “Believe me. I’m committed here. But if you don’t want this to end in an ER visit and a conversation I really do not want to have with Scott’s mom, you have to let me up for a second.” He takes a breath and adds, “Also, this’ll probably work better if you’re not wearing clothes.”

Clothes. His clothes are in the way. His claws tear at his jeans, scoring his own skin and filling the air with the hot scent of blood for an instant before the wounds heal. His blood, and Stiles’s. There’s the snap of a bottle cap, the sudden sharp smell of lube, and Stiles twists beneath him, sucks a breath across his teeth and swears softly. He’s sprawled half onto his side, legs spread obscenely, working himself open with slick fingers. He’s confident about it, like he knows what he’s doing, like he’s done this before, and Derek pushes himself into the space between his thighs, presses a growl against his bare hip at the thought of it.

“Fuck,” Stiles breathes when Derek’s teeth scrape his skin. “Oh, fuck, Derek—”

There’s no fear in his scent at all now. He smells like sex, like hot skin and pre-come and lube, and the sound he makes when Derek shoves him onto his belly and pins him there is indescribable.

He can’t. Words seem very far away now, but he can’t just— he has to—

He presses himself against Stiles, pushes his face into the curve of his neck and laps at the skin there, tasting sweat. His voice is thick when he speaks. Teeth crowding his mouth. “Can. Can I—”

“Yeah.” Stiles swallows audibly, and then he’s bracing his hands on the floor, body curving up against Derek in an unmistakable invitation. Derek’s cock slips along the cleft of his ass where his skin is slick with lube, and he feels as much as hears Stiles’s breath stutter. “Yeah, I’m— you can—”

His voice breaks off like it was cut with a knife when Derek starts pushing into him. Slow, he thinks. Slow, _slow_ , but everything is slick and hot and feels too good to think, and his hips snap forward before he can stop himself, burying his cock to the hilt in Stiles’s body.

Stiles makes a soft, pained noise and rolls his forehead against the floor, then pushes back against Derek like a dare, like a challenge, and Derek snarls and slaps a hand between his shoulder blades, pinning him.

“Okay,” Stiles breathes. His fingers splay against the floor, his heartbeat thundering. Derek drags his face against the back of his neck, rolls his hips, and Stiles’s moan doesn’t sound pained at all this time. “God. Fuck, okay, Derek. Do it. Fuck me.”

Derek growls again, then he’s moving, without conscious decision or thought. The rhythm he sets is too fast, too rough, and he can’t bring himself to care. The air is thick and hot, Stiles’s breathing fast and choppy, ragged, like he can’t get enough air to his lungs; one hand braces against the rough carpet and the other scrabbles at Derek’s thigh. Impossible to tell if he’s trying to pull him closer or push him away. It doesn’t matter anyway.

He swears jaggedly under his breath and his nails score Derek’s skin, biting in, and it’s that, maybe, that makes Derek dig his teeth into the bare, bruised curve of Stiles’ neck, to drag Stiles’s body back against his chest. Stiles makes a low, broken noise and arches against him and comes like the force of it startles him.

Derek growls low in the back of his throat and pitches them forward, pinning Stiles to the carpet. He shudders again, and his fingers dig into Derek’s leg, and his voice is thick when he says, “Yeah, Derek, come on, like that, fucking come _on_.”

Derek growls again against his skin, hips snapping forward, and it’s like all the heat in him coalesces to a single bright point. The force of his orgasm whites out his vision, the shuddering hum of his mind going suddenly blank.

He comes back to himself slowly. Knees on the rough carpet, a bare, sweaty shoulder against his cheek. The heat is leaching out of him, leaving his mind clear for the first time in almost two days.

Stiles is beneath him, pinned down by Derek’s bulk. His breathing is still ragged, his heart racing, but he’s not trying to struggle, not trying to throw Derek off, not that there would be any point. Even if he wasn’t a wolf, Derek is bigger, heavier, stronger than him.

There’s something awful gathering at the edges of his thoughts. He takes a breath, smells sweat and come and skin and— “Stiles.”

“That was…” Stiles’ voice trails off, and he laughs, shaky and a little hysterical. His hand moves on Derek’s skin, sending aftershocks prickling up his spine. “Unexpected. Ow.”

Guilt slides through him like a knife. He pulls out as carefully as he can. Stiles makes a small, pained noise that he’s clearly trying to stifle, and Derek rolls away, groping for the shredded t-shirt discarded on the floor beside them. He cleans himself roughly and doesn’t turn back until he’s sure his expression is under control. “We should get you to the hospital.”

“Um,” Stiles says, rolling over onto his back. “No?”

He looks completely debauched, naked and bruised, his bare belly shiny with sweat and come. There are red marks on his hips and wrists, rug-burn on his forearms, and the back of his neck—

Derek almost reaches out, but he snatches his hand back before he can complete the gesture. “You’re bleeding.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Stiles says, putting a hand up to touch the bite. He wrinkles his nose when his fingers come away red. “Although, yes, bleeding. Uh, that’s not going to, you know—”

“No,” Derek interrupts flatly. He yanks his jeans up with no concern for tender flesh, and after a moment, Stiles follows suit. “I’m not an alpha anymore. And anyway, it’s not that kind of bite.”

“What kind of bite is…” Stiles’ voice trails off as he buttons up his jeans, reaches for his t-shirt, stands awkwardly. “What, like, a property stamp? Marking territory? ‘This ass belongs to Derek Hale’? You don’t have any horrible diseases, do you, other than the lycanthropy thing?”

Derek clenches his jaw. “No. It’ll fade. I promise.”

“What if I don’t want it to?” Stiles asks. Derek stares at him, and he puts a hand out. “Okay, no, I know, I’m sorry, one time thing, extenuating circumstances, this never happened. Am I right?”

“It shouldn’t have happened.”

“And you’re going to beat yourself up over it until the end of time, aren’t you,” Stiles says, and sighs. It’s an uncharacteristically tired sound, and something about it yanks Derek back from the stew of self-loathing he can feel himself sinking down into. Stiles has his t-shirt wadded up in one hand, his chest and belly more or less clean. His shoulders are slightly slumped. He smells like sex, and like _Derek_ , and there are about a thousand reasons that this shouldn’t have happened, but also he looks resigned and kind of miserable, and Derek can’t bring himself to belabor the point like he probably should. It’s a little late for that, anyway.

“That’s not…” he stops. “I’m sorry.”

Stiles eyes him. “For which part of it, exactly?”

“All of it.”

“Nope, wrong answer.”

“You’re hurt,” Derek spits. “Can I be sorry for that?”

“I knew what I was getting into.”

“The hell you did.”

“God, this is like the worst pillow talk ever,” Stiles says, and there’s something brittle about it that makes Derek bite back the retort he wants to make. Stiles rubs a hand over his mouth, then says, all in a rush, “Okay, look, I know you don’t actually want me, I know you didn’t have a choice about any of this, and I’m sorry about that, I really am, but you’re out of your fucking mind it you think I was just going to let you—”

He breaks off like he just ran out of words all at once. His shoulders slump again. Derek licks his lips, and then says, very carefully, “I never said I didn’t want you.”

Stiles blinks up at him. “What?”

“I never said,” Derek repeats, “that I didn’t want you.”

“You--wait, really? Then _why?_ Jesus Christ, why all the stoic manly suffering, I’m pretty sure this would have been a significantly more pleasant experience for both of us if we hadn’t waited until you were out of your mind!”

“You’re seventeen,” Derek says flatly, “you have a girlfriend, and you hate my guts. Why the hell do you _think_ I didn’t tell you?”

“Well, when you put it like that…” Stiles rubs a hand through his sweat-damp hair. “I admit, it complicates things. But I wasn’t just gonna let you die. You had to know that, man.”

Derek shrugs. He did know that. That was the problem. “I didn’t want to put you in a position where you… where you felt like you had to do something you didn’t want to do.”

“That’s surprisingly honorable of you, actually,” Stiles says eventually, thoughtful. And then, “I don’t hate you, by the way. In case that was unclear.”

“Thanks,” Derek says, and manages something that’s almost a smile. “I think.”

“You’re welcome,” Stiles says, and sighs. “And I actually am sorry about this. I know it’s not what you wanted.”

“It’s fine.” It isn’t, really, but he can’t find it in himself to blame Stiles for it, either. He’s always been a person who’ll use any weapon that comes to hand; they have that in common. Sometimes, Derek thinks that’s what drew him to Stiles so strongly in the first place: not his looks, not his quick mind or his smart mouth or his fierce loyalty, but that bedrock of ruthless pragmatism that sits beneath it all.

The wolf thinks that he would make a good mate, a strong protector of the pack, and it’s probably right. In another world, that might even matter. Not this one, though. No matter what the wolf wants, no matter what _Derek_ wants, Stiles is not someone he can allow himself to have.

He puts his head back against the wall and closes his eyes. After a moment, Stiles leans against the wall next to him, just out of reach. Not so far out of reach that Derek can’t smell him, the focal point of the intoxicating odor that permeates the room. Uncharacteristically, it takes him several minutes to speak. “Is it safe to open the door?”

Derek looks over at him. He’s limned in the yellow light coming in through the shades, his brown eyes luminous beneath expressive brows. A thin trickle of blood has pooled in the hollow of his collarbone, drying tacky. His lips are bruised. He looks battered and fucked-out and beautiful in a way that puts a sharp twist of— guilt, regret, _something,_ through the pit of Derek’s stomach.

“What would you do if I said no?” he asks, genuinely curious. “Would you chain me back up if I asked?”

Stiles lets out a breath of laughter and drops his eyes, and that’s answer enough. “Dude, I’m down with any plan that doesn’t involve helping you commit suicide.”

“I’m not going to die.”

“Does that mean it’s over?”

“I don’t know.” Probably not, honestly. These things tend to linger, and he still feels feverish, sensitive, raw in ways that have nothing to do with the lingering memory of Stiles’ touch on his skin. But he’s not going to die and he’s not going to lose himself again, and that’s enough. “It should be safe.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, looking away. The curve of his back is tense against the wall, and he looks terribly young. “Next question: how long are you going to hate my guts for this?”

Derek looks at him for a long moment, then reaches out. It’s probably the last thing he should do right now, but he does it anyway, cups Stiles’ cheek in one hand and draws him in for a kiss. It’s soft and dry and brief, and Stiles sighs against his lips when he pulls away.

“I don’t hate you,” Derek murmurs.

“Okay.”

“But this isn’t going to happen again.”

“Fair enough.”

“You should go.”

“Okay,” Stiles says again, but he doesn’t move. After a while, he tips his forehead against Derek’s. He doesn’t try to kiss him again. They just breathe together, and Derek listens to his heart slowing down, the shaky scent of adrenaline dissipating from his skin.

“You should go,” Derek murmurs again, but his hand has found its way to the back of Stiles’s neck, keeping him there, warm and close.

Stiles breathes out a quiet laugh, his breath rustling Derek’s beard, and doesn’t try to pull back.

They stay like that for a long time.


End file.
